Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome;

mighty woman with a torch

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

Greek fame,

Colossus

ong gone from their families

but so very few make it out of here as human as they came in

Some will make it out of here with hate in their eyes,

some will just sit around talking about how good the old world was.

each with a dream in their heart,

Coyote

men are hollering back and forth cell to cell,

Across the way Joey is sticking his hands through the bars to hand Felipé a cigarette

My cell is crisscrossed with laundry lines, my T-shirts, boxer shorts, socks and pants are drying. Just like it used to be in my neighborhood:

Our lives don’t get better, we go down quick.

who wore blue suits and broke our doors down when they wanted, arrested us when they felt like, swinging clubs and shooting guns as they pleased.

We came here to get away from false promises, from dictators in our neighborhoods,

The administration says this is right,

The administration says this is temporary

But right away we are sent to work as dishwashers, to work in fields for three cents an hour.

in the old world, they talked about rehabilitation, about being able to finish school, and learning an extra good trade.

Our expectations are high

We pass them as they stand around idle, leaning on shovels and rakes or against walls.

The old men who have lived here stare at us, from deep disturbed eyes, sulking, retreated.

Others were good with their heads. They used common sense like scholars use glasses and books to reach the world. But most of us didn’t finish high school.

Some of us were craftsmen in the old world, good with our hands and proud of our work.

We take tests.

Then we gather in another room where counselors orient us to the new land

We are given shots and doctors ask questions.

and we are given overalls like mechanics wear

At the gates we are given new papers,

We are born with dreams in our hearts,

Immigrants in Our Own Land

A third before he dropped her put her arms    Around his neck and kissed him.

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Koreans or Malaysians

invisible

She glows like the fat tipof a banker's cigar,

She burns like oil on water.

  We stand with our handshanging at our sides,

A skirt of flamesdances around herat dusk.

    she burns like a piece of paper.

The cry I bring down from the hillsbelongs to a girl still burninginside my head.

with a wild, headlong motion for the game he loved like a country

in slow motion, almost exactly like a coach’s drawing on the blackboard,

an underhand pass toward the other guard  

and for once our gangly starting center    boxes out his man and times his jump

with a wild, headlong motion for the game he loved like a country

until the guard finally lunges out    and commits to the wrong man

and spinning around to throw a strike    to the outlet who is already shoveling

A hook shot kisses the rim and hangs there, helplessly, but doesn’t drop,

crust and sugar over—       like a syrupy sweet?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Does it dry up       like a raisin in the sun?

drugs

Beyond the walls of intelligence, life is definedI think of crime when I'm in a New York state of mind

Same negroes will catch a back-to-back, snatching your slacks in blackThere was a snitch on the block getting negroes knockedSo hold your stash 'til the drug price drop

It's like the game ain't the sameGot younger negroes pulling the triggers, bringing fame to their nameAnd claim some corners, crews without guns are gonersIn broad daylight, stickup kids:

now I'm in dangerFinally pulled it back and saw 3 bullets caught up in the chamberSo now I'm jetting to the building lobbyAnd it was full of children probably couldn't see as high as I be

I monkey flip 'em with the funky rhythmI be kicking, musician, inflictin' compositionOf pain,

Where fake negroes don't make it back

I call for youcultivation of strength to heal and enhancein the non-cheering dark,

what wants to crumble you down

cultivation of victory Over

Under the wolves and coyotes

in the vertigo cold.

I call for you cultivation of strength in the dark

That had I Ballet Knowledge ‑

And though I had no Gown of Gauze ‑No Ringlet, to my Hair,Nor hopped for Audiences ‑ like Birds ‑One Claw opon the air

A Glee possesseth me

I cannot dance opon my Toes ‑No Man instructed me